A Thousand Years
by mems1223
Summary: What if Harry Potter never existed? What if that was an alias for someone else? What if Minerva McGonagall switched the letter Albus Dumbledore left, with one of her own? And what if James Potter, the man who was obsessed with Lily Evans during their time in school, never actually married her? (Please note: Fem!harry)
1. Prologue: The spell cast

Voldemort was coming.

Ever since Sybil Trelawney issued the prophecy, she knew he would. He wouldn't go after the Longbottom boy, who was a pureblood, but that didn't mean half-bloods were safe, either.

She knew James knew this, as well as William and Minerva McGonagall. She also knew that Dumbledore wasn't to be trusted, as he was known for allowing first years into dangerous situations, and rewarding them for it.

She wasn't saying that Dumbledore was a bad man, but she _was_ saying that he wasn't known for making the best decisions, even if he had good intentions. And so, here she was, preparing to protect her child, in case Dumbledore did anything stupid.

McGonagall had researched this particular spell, as did James. William had researched it, too, but being William, he had gone a bit overboard, researching five different additional spells and their counters, as well as any loopholes they might have.

It was an ancient spell of protection and privacy, mainly used by those in high government positions or those in the fame industry. It caused the person being enchanted to be recognized in pictures, or in the news, as someone of fame or importance, but when meeting face to face, to be unrecognizable, unless introduced under their famous alias.

She had also spent a while researching names for the spell. They had decided to pick similar names for the alias and for the actual name, but she had been stuck between multiple names until James had suggested staying within the family tree.

It was Halloween night. They had decided to cast the spell then, because magic was at its strongest, as well as any prying muggle eyes would think it was simply a Halloween party with multicolored lights inside.

She, along with McGonagall, James, and William, surrounded the infant. They each stood at a cardinal direction, she at north, William at south, James at east, and McGonagall at west. They raised their wands, tips pointing towards the center, and began to chant.

' _O magica , a quattuor plagis terrae, sidera caelo desuper et a tenebris in profundum maris spatio quasi ex montibus ab saltus repleti mysteriis supra homines, hanc veniam innocens a peccatis fortunae cupiditate gloriae. Protege hic innocens in nominando mundi abscondi servantes identitatem sors adversa studio seruare dilecto in cordibus suis admissa .'_

As they completed the chant, a bright light filled the room, surrounding the child. It first was white, then red, orange, transitioning to yellow, going through the whole color spectrum, before glowing a blinding gold and fading away.

As it did, a parchment appeared, floating down upon the child. It had two spaces, one for the child's alias, and the other for the child's true name.

Another small flash of gold light, and a golden feather quill appeared. Both floated softly to the ground, landing on the sleeping form of the babe.

She leaned down, picking up the parchment and quill. She had discussed this with James, and he had agreed that the safest thing would be to give her her biological father's last name, as he was from an old pureblood family.

She walked over to the table, laying the parchment flat. She looked at James. He nodded, reassuring her that this was the right thing to do. She took a shaky breath, gripping the quill, writing on the parchment her child's name.

"Harriet Potter. Daughter of James and Lily Potter." her hand moved to the line below it, where her daughter's true name would be. "Hara Elisabeth Holmes-Evans. Daughter of Lily Evans and William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

* * *

 ** _O, magic, come, from the four corners of the earth, from the stars in the heavens above, from the darkness of the abyss within the seas, from the mountains as old as time itself, from the forests filled with mysteries beyond mankind, come protect this innocent one, from the sins of fortune, from the greed of glory. Protect this innocent one, by naming them to the world, and keeping their true identity and destiny hidden from those with ill intentions, while allowing their beloveds to keep this within their hearts._**

* * *

 **I hope you like this!**

 **In case you didn't realize, the translation for the spell is located right above this author's note.**

 **Please review!**

 **Cry over Reichenbach, Rejoice over baby Watson, and slap/kiss Moriarty!**

 **Love,  
mems1223**


	2. The letter sent

Minerva McGonagall was heartbroken.

Only days ago, she had been helping Lily and James protect their daughter. How was she to know that, half an hour after, The Dark Lord would come, break into the house, and attempt to kill the very child she had been helping?

And poor Lily and James! Killed by the very man they were fighting, in their home, no less. It was horrible!

And now Albus Dumbledore was doing something very predictable: He was doing something completely stupid.

His idea of suitable caregivers for Lily's daughter consisted of Lily's sister and her husband, both of whom Lily, as well as James, hated. But he considered blood-bonds to be stronger than hate, and so he planned to place the baby there with the Dursleys, hoping that the idea of Lily's baby being their last connection to her, would override their hatred.

Minerva knew better. She, being very skilled in the arts of pick-pocketing when she was younger, had sneaked the letter Dumbledore had planned to leave with the babe, and read it. The contents, which were horrible under normal circumstances, were completely and utterly awful.

 _Dear Mr. and Missus. Durslee,_

 _Unfortunately, your sister-slash-sister in law Lilly and her husband Jams hav bean cilled, bie the wurst wisard in the wurld: Lorde Vol Dee Mart. Aye amm asking u two tak kare of leetle Hairy-It Potater as if shee wer yor oone, and, wen shee is olde eenof, to tel her off her hair it age as a wit chh. Aye amm leefing her with u be cuz in hour wurld shee wil be famuz, and aye donut want her two end ap beeing full off her salf._

 _Thank u,_

 _Al Bus Dumb Bell Door_

Minerva had shuddered after reading it. _Whatever Quick Quotes Quill Albus was using must have been very old! No successful professor can get away with spelling THAT atrocious!_

She had watched the Dursleys before. They spoiled their son until he ate an unhealthy amount of candy, the wife continuously gossiped, and the husband regarded anyone who even appeared _slightly_ different as if they had some horrible disease!

No. They wouldn't do. Unfortunately, the only person who James Potter and Lily Evans trusted enough to leave their daughter with, was in no position to take care of a child.

The young man, who had loved Lily, so much so as to give her his blessing on the upcoming marriage, and to ask James to take care of his daughter and to love her as if she were his own, and to willingly help with various wedding preparations, was, at the moment, probably running around Central London, infiltrating the sewers, and associating with the more dangerous of his homeless network, high as an airplane.

It was obvious he had taken their deaths much too hard. As soon as he had heard the news, delivered by Minerva herself, he had clammed up. She had checked up on him the first few days. He remained in the same spot, not having eaten, nor slept, staring at the same spot on the wall.

On the fourth day, he had gotten dressed, and had a familiar box in hand, one that hadn't been seen since before he met Lily.

Minerva knew she couldn't do anything. She had tried before, before Lily, but she knew she wasn't the one to help him out of the mess he fell into. That was the DI's division. He was the only one the young man trusted enough.

Minerva had no choice.

She couldn't take care of the child, and she knew Dumbledore would watch the house for a few years, to make sure they hadn't abandoned the child. Minerva couldn't do much, but she could do one thing. She could give Lily's daughter the privacy she deserved. Once she was introduced to the wizarding world as Harriet Potter, she would have no privacy from the fans and the reporters.

Plus, she couldn't give the Dursleys the impression that wizards were illiterate dunderheads.

So she did the only logical thing: She offered to watch the child while in cat form, in order for her to make sure that the Dursleys accepted the child. Albus, as always, agreed.

As soon as he left, Minerva took the letter, and, using a cleansing spell, wiped the page of every trace of the letter. She summoned her customary green ink and quill pen, and, setting the parchment onto the step next to the babe, began to write.

 _Dear Mrs. Dursley,_

 _Your sister, Lily Evans, and her soon-to-be husband were killed on the night of Halloween by a serial killer and cult leader in our world. He attempted to kill their young daughter as well, but failed, for reasons unknown. Unfortunately, the only other person willing to take in their daughter is, at the moment, indisposed. It is, with great regret, my duty to ask you to take the responsibility and guardianship of their daughter, Hara Elisabeth H. Evans, and to care for her until she is of age._

 _Minerva McGonagall_

Minerva folded the parchment up, tucked it into the blanket the small six-month old was wrapped in, and gave her the smallest of kisses on her forehead. She then, using a spell, returned her pen and ink to her office at Hogwarts, and transformed.

Had anyone been looking, they would have seen a street full of normal houses and gardens, a babe left on a porch, and an old tabby cat, curled up around the small bundle, prepared to accompany the poor baby until morning.

* * *

 **Hi!**

 **I'm trying to write the first few chapters, so that I don't get writer's block on the second or third chapter. The chapters are shorter than what I usually do, but hopefully that is because they are the first few chapters, and not that I'm not writing as much.**

 **Don't worry! I'll try to write more!**

 **I can't think of any good send off, so: Bye!**

 **Love,  
mems1223**


	3. The path walked

**I've never done this before, because I didn't realize the effect my words had on people, which really makes you think. What if you jokingly said something, that triggered one of your friends?**

 **Anyway, trigger warning. Mentions of drug use, abuse, and sexual assault, as well as death, alcoholism, and depression.**

* * *

Gregory Lestrade had had it with Sherlock Holmes.

Ten years prior, when he was only nineteen, Sherlock Holmes had wandered onto the crime scene Greg had been working on, high as a kite, rambling on about idiots, hairs on the coat, the wedding ring, and who in the office was sleeping with who.

Come to think of it, that was probably the reason why Anderson and Donovan hated him from the start.

He had been a genius, Greg could give him that, but he obviously had no idea how big of a gift he was wasting. And that was how Greg found him, lying in the sewer, shuddering, coughing, and gagging, inflicted with withdrawls.

Greg had taken him home, cleaned him up, and offered him a place to stay. One day after work, Greg had come home to find the young man, sitting on the floor of the living room, a pile of the cold cases from years back surrounding him.

"Your people in the task force are such a load of idiots. It was obvious that the gardener did it."

Greg, used to the man's antics by then, simply nodded. "You solved a few, then?"

"A few?! More like all of them!" The man heaved a sigh, exasperated, and rolled onto the floor. "These are from years ago. Don't you have any more? It gets awfully boring here, and you don't have any of the proper materials to conduct any good experiments."

Greg cocked an eyebrow. "You want to solve more cases? Like, what, a detective?"

"Yes, of course. But not one that works with the Yard. One who consults the Yard, sure, but not a detective appointed by the government."

"A consulting detective, eh?" Greg said thoughtfully. Sherlock perked up at this. "If you want to do that, help solve cases and such, you'll have to promise me one thing."

"What?" Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes.

Greg leveled his gaze at the man. "No more drugs. You'll have to stay clean for at least two weeks before I'll let you get any more cold cases, and a month for me to take you to a crime scene. You'll also have to prove you can live without me breathing down your neck, get your own flat, and what not."

Sherlock glared at him. "Fine."

So that's what happened. Sherlock moved out of Greg's flat, he stayed clean, he helped out with the cases, and solved all the ones thrown his way.

He met a girl, too. Greg didn't know her name, but Sherlock brought her to a few of the crime scenes. She was continuously fascinated with what Sherlock did, and he was nicer to the people at the Yard when he was with her.

Then she stopped coming. Sherlock had seemed disappointed at first, but when Greg questioned him, he said simply, "She's getting married."

Greg was surprised, at the fact that Sherlock was handling it so well, when he had obviously been smitten with her, and the fact that she wasn't getting married to Sherlock.

"Aren't you upset?"

Sherlock replied, "No. I love her, and that means wanting her to be happy. And if that means with someone else, then so be it."

Then, a year later, everything collapsed.

Sherlock didn't answer his texts. He didn't answer his phone. Greg started to panic. After the third day, he decided to go see Sherlock himself.

When he arrived at the small flat, the first thing he noticed was the quiet. There was usually an experiment running, or Sherlock's mad pacing, or the sound of the violin. It was never silent.

Greg raced into the living room. Sitting there, on the sofa, in old pajamas, wrapped in his bathrobe, clearly a mess, was Sherlock. He didn't respond to the waving of the DI's hands in front of his face, nor did he respond to the calling of his name.

Greg didn't give up, though. Sherlock wasn't high. He wasn't drunk. He wasn't even bored. If he was, he'd be rambling on like hell.

Sherlock Holmes was depressed.

"He's been like that for three days." A kindly voice said from behind the older man. He turned to see an older woman, dressed in old-fashioned clothing the color of emeralds.

She shook her head. "The poor boy is torn up inside. His dearest friend and her fiancé were killed three days ago. He hasn't spoken since."

Greg nodded mutely. He stared at the young man, pity filling his heart. _It must've been that girl. She was the only person I ever saw make Sherlock truly happy._

He looked back at the woman, as she began to speak again.

"My dear Detective Inspector, I do hope you can keep an eye on Mr. Holmes. If he were to do anything he would regret later, I'm sure you can imagine the consequences."

He nodded. He looked at Sherlock one more time, than turned back to the woman, but she was gone.

* * *

Sherlock had broken his promise. The next day, he had taken out that small wooden box. The one that contained what Greg dreaded most: Sherlock's needles. He knew, with Sherlock's connections, that it was fairly easy to get cocaine, and he knew that Sherlock wasn't in his right mind.

But he also knew that he had gotten there too late. When Greg had arrived at the flat, he wasn't surprised to see Sherlock in a ball, on the floor. He was disappointed, however, especially since he had been clean for five years.

And so the process started over again.

Greg took Sherlock back to his flat. He cleaned him up, he fed him, he made a bed for him on the sofa. But this time was harder. Every few months, after Sherlock would start to get his life back together again, he would fall into temptation, and out came the needles.

After three years, Sherlock finally managed to get clean enough to move out. He found a flat, he found a flatmate. John became his part-time assistant, as well as caretaker and friend.

A year passed. Sherlock had stayed clean. John had had a few girlfriends. Crimes were being solved.

And then they got a big case.

A serial killer was on the loose. One who liked to torture his victims by dripping water down their faces, playing unnerving, haunting music, and, sometimes, physically or sextually abusing them. And his favorite choice of victim? Teenaged girls.

The last victim had been a fifteen year old. Punk. Blue and purple hair. Abusive, alcoholic stepfather, mother on drugs. She left the house after being attacked by her drunk father, hoping to spend the night at a friend's house. She never got there.

Her body had turned up in a town in Surrey, in a dumpster, near a park. Greg had asked each of his officers to ask around, find out any information on the girl, see if she was a local.

He asked John and Sherlock to help, too. They interviewed the residents who lived closest to the park.

And that's how Sherlock Holmes arrived at Privet Drive.

* * *

 **Yay!**

 **They made it to Privet Drive!**

 **Please review, it really makes my day!**

 **Stay in school, drink your milk, and don't stay up until 4:15 am writing fafiction.**

 **Love,  
mems1223**


	4. The door opened

**Hi!**

 **In case you didn't read earlier, I will be updating the first few chapters rather quickly, so that my readers have more material, so I can focus on my other stories more. (I, unfortunately, have not been the best parent. My babies have not grown, nor been nurtured, and they desperately need more chapters.)**

 **Also, I depicted Dumbledore the way I did, because I realize that he was a great man, and he did many great things, but also that many people, when writing fanfiction, hate on him, or make him a power-hungry manipulator, and I think that's cool, but I also like good Dumbledore. The Dumbledore who cares about his students, who has everyone's best interests in mind. Who, even though his ideas make sense, aren't always the best, because he is human, too, and he makes mistakes. I depicted Dumbledore like I did, because even though he had Harry's best interests in mind, he didn't stop to consider the fact that muggles might not treat him as well as a wizard might.**

 **If you just skipped that long paragraph, I suggest you go back and read it. It's very important.**

 **Trigger warning: mentions of physical and verbal abuse, starvation, child abuse, murder, drug use, teenage pregnancy, and alcohol abuse.**

 **Thanks!**

* * *

Hara was used to being punished.

She was used to not eating for days.

She was used to staying in her cupboard for weeks at a time.

But never before had she been hit.

The creaking on the stairs told her that it was her Aunt who was descending, not the heavy footfalls of Uncle Vernon, nor the hurried stomps of Dudley. She quietly exhaled, knowing that, if Aunt Petunia was going to the kitchen, she still had at least a half hour of peace before Dudley would start banging around above her, causing the spiders to fall from the beams below the stairs.

She sat up from where she lay in the pile of old towels and moldy blankets that made up her bed. She was still sore from the day before, when her uncle had whipped her with his belt in their basement. The small beads of blood coming from her many wounds had crusted over, soaking her bed and her clothes.

She turned slightly. Even that small movement sent pain shooting up and down her back, the newly formed scabs breaking, causing fresh blood to fall.

She gasped in pain, but bit her lips, to keep the gasp from escaping. If Uncle Vernon even slightly suspected that she was in pain, he would punish her even more for being a baby.

Her Aunt rapped her knuckles on her door. "Get up!" she ordered, causing Hara to jump slightly, which made her wince even more. "We're planning to go to London today, and while we're gone, I want you to wash the floor of the kitchen, as well as polish all of the silver. But for now, you're going to cook breakfast. So get up!" She pounded on the door again.

Hara sighed quietly, before wincing her way through putting on one of Dudley's old blue t-shirts, as well as tying an old, tattered ribbon she had found around it, creating her make-shift dress.

She took the broken comb she had found at the park, and brushed her hair, and, after tying a lopsided bow in her hair with another piece of tattered ribbon, she opened the door to her cupboard, and stepped into the hallway.

The morning sun was just barely starting to peek through the windows in the front hall, casting long shadows across the floor, the multifaceted glass creating small rainbows dancing on the walls.

Hara stopped just long enough to appreciate the view, before hurrying to the kitchen.

Her Aunt had set out bacon, eggs, and a bowl of batter. Hara had never had pancakes before, and she knew that she wouldn't, at least, not today. So she continued to prepare breakfast, frying the eggs and bacon, ladling out pancake batter, and stacking the finished products onto plates.

As soon as the last pancake was done, she hurried over to set the table. She pulled a chair over to the counter, climbed up, and carefully grabbed the plates and cups, knowing that, if she broke one, it would be another week in her cupboard, no food, no air, no light.

After setting the table, she ran outside to retrieve Uncle Vernon's newspaper, her small bare feet becoming slick with dew. Remembering to wipe her feet, she entered the house again, laying the paper next to her uncle's place setting.

As the rest of the family began to eat, Hara set about cleaning up the kitchen. She scrubbed the pans, drying them and placing them back where they belonged, doing the same with the skillet and various mixing bowls.

She was just starting on the mixing spoons when her uncle spoke up. "There's been a murder. Teenage girl, found in a dumpster." he snorted. "They're all fools, the whole lot of them. Teenagers are trouble magnets. It was obviously drugs."

Uncle Vernon's answer to every bad thing to happen in the universe narrowed down to three things: drugs, teenagers, and weird people. Him using those reasons to explain the news wasn't new.

Him using those reasons to explain Hara's mother's death wasn't new either.

According to Uncle Vernon, Hara's mother had gotten into drugs as a teenager, met a weird guy, and became pregnant. He left, she got back into drugs, and died in a car crash after overdosing while being drunk.

Even to Hara, who was only four, it seemed a bit extreme.

How many of those things could happen, all to one person? Especially since it lined up with Uncle Vernon's three reasons too well.

Hara, having finished with the dishes, started clearing the empty plates from the table, as the Dursleys prepared to leave. If she worked quietly and efficiently enough, she knew, Aunt Petunia would give her some toast to eat. It was better than not eating at all.

"You'd better be finished by the time we come home, girl!" Uncle Vernon spat, as his wife and son walked out the front door, "Or it'll be your cupboard for a month!" He slammed the door, before securing all five locks on the door.

Hara sighed, before gathering the remaining dishes, noting how Dudley had devoured the bacon yet again, as well as all the pancakes. After washing the dishes and utensils, cleaning the counter and table, and wiping down the stove, Hara pulled out the large bucket from under the sink.

She gathered all the supplies she would need: soap, rags, a scrub brush, towels, and bleach.

She filled the bucket with warm water, adding soap and bleach. She toted the bucket over to a corner of the kitchen, laying down a few rags to kneel on. And she started scrubbing.

Aunt Petunia had Hara wash the kitchen floor once a week. She was required to use bleach, in order for the floor to be whiter than white, even though the harshness of the chemicals wasn't healthy for her small hands and arms.

She was halfway across the floor when the doorbell rang.

Hara hadn't realized that the Dursleys were expecting guests. If she had, she would've tried to complete her chores faster, as well as prepare something for the guests to enjoy.

Hara stood up, wiping her hands on her dress, before running over to the front door.

She opened the front door, peeking up at the two men standing in front of her.

"Hello." The taller one said. "This is my associate, Dr. John Watson." He gestured to the shorter man, before continuing, "and my name is Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

 **You have reached the end of the page.**

 **Thank you for wasting your time and energy reading this unedited manuscript, and we ask that you come back soon to read the next installment.**

 **Thank you,**

 **Your friends at Superwholock, Pjo, HP, and Co.**

 **(mems1223)**


	5. The eyes shattered

**Hi!**

 **I'm sorry for not updating!**

 **I went on vacation for two weeks, and my dad would get upset every time I opened my laptop or looked at my phone, and didn't participate in activities.**

 **I also may not update as much, because my mom is going to start monitoring how long I spend on the computer.**

 **i'm sorry this chapter is short, but I got stuck. I didn't want the chapter to be super long, but I also wanted some suspense for the next chapter.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was fed up with ordinary people. They didn't know _anything._

He and John had already interviewed the entire east side of the street, and half of the west side. How could a whole community not know about an escaped serial killer, and the fact that he had been in their area?!

As he strode down the walkway from interviewing the residents of a number 5, Privet Drive, Sherlock huffed in exasperation. "How could an entire community _not_ know anything that has been going on?!"

"Well, Sherlock," John Watson replied, "perhaps this community is very tight-knit. Maybe they don't go into the cities often because all their friends are here. There _are_ some places like that."

Sherlock huffed again. "I doubt this place is like that. Did you hear? No one knew _anything_ about their neighbors. A few didn't even know their names! How do you not know your neighbors' last names?!"

John just shook his head. "I'm sure we'll have more luck soon. We still have a few houses left."

"Ah, yes." Sherlock said sarcastically. "A few more houses to go, so much could change during that time!"

He never realized how true that statement was.

oOoOoOo

Sherlock rang the doorbell to the next house.

John frowned at the five deadbolts. "Sherlock, I don't think anyone's home." He jerked his thumb to the empty driveway.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, no. There's obviously someone home. If you looked closely, you could see shadows moving inside and hear the sound of feet. You could say it's a pet-" he said as he saw John was about to argue, "but look at the yard. It's much too neat. A little OCD, almost. Whoever lives in this house wouldn't stand having a pet, because it would make everything messy. So, obviously, someone's home."

John looked sceptical. "Are you sure someone's home?"

"Yes." Sherlock said impatiently, "If you listen closely, you can hear footsteps in what I am assuming is the kitchen."

John frowned, but didn't argue. Sherlock turned back to the door, looking expectantly at it.

The top deadbolt clicked, followed by the one directly beneath it, going down the line until all of them were unlocked. The handle turned, and the door creaked open, revealing large green eyes, the color of sunlight filtering through leaves.

The owner of said eyes stood about 2 ½ feet tall, with ebony black curls framing her face, which were held back by a tattered, faded red ribbon. She had fair, peach skin, almost white, with rose coloring on her cheeks, fair, delicate lips, long, dark eyelashes, and a small, rounded nose. Her face was round, as most small children's were, and she had a bit of baby fat rounding out her cheeks.

At first glance she was exactly like every child, but, on closer examination, Sherlock noticed her cheekbones were sharper than usual, her eyes a bit sunken, and dark purple shadows were prominent under her bottom lashes. She wore an overly large t-shirt, covered in many suspicious looking stains, some more recent than others, with another piece of tattered red ribbon to fasten it, and there was an overly strong smell of bleach. Her hands were calloused, and not the soft, new skin of young children, and were damp, which is presumably where the smell of bleach came from.

But all that was nothing compared to her eyes.

Her eyes were as fragile as glass, and yet as hard as steel. They were clear and green, like tropical seas in the sun, and yet as dark and mysterious as the darkest forest. They were sharp, cold, untrusting, having lost faith in the world long ago, and yet they still held a small spark, a spark of life, of love, of hope and joy. They could shatter any minute, and yet could weather the strongest hurricane.

Sherlock felt drawn to those eyes, so much like a pair he had seen before, and yet, he couldn't put his finger on it. He knew he had seen eyes much like those, eyes full of life, and yet, broken, somehow. Eyes that had seen horrors no one should see, and had persevered.

It was obvious from the young girl's body language that she distrusted them, John more than Sherlock. This was a strange situation for Sherlock, as John was usually seen as much more homely and generally kinder than Sherlock, but Sherlock shrugged it off and continued with the investigation.

"Hello. This is my associate, Dr. John Watson, and my name is Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

 **Thank you for watching the latest episode of _OMG She Updated I'm So Excited I Wonder What Happens And If It's Any Good._**

 **A Thousand Years is presented by BBC's Sherlock, and from comments and reviews to your local Fanfiction writer from readers like you.**

 **Thank You.**

 **mems1223**


	6. The hand grasped

**Hi!**

 **I'm sorry for not updating recently. I have been busy, and my mom took my computer.**

 **But I have good news!**

 **This is the final chapter of Part one!**

 **Don't worry, there will be more chapters, but I am splitting up the story into parts. We will soon have fluff!**

 **Also, I am looking for a beta. If you are interested, or you know someone interested or good at beta-ing, please pm me!**

 **Thanks!**

* * *

"We are conducting an investigation on the death of one Miss Sandra J. Randsbury. Her body was found not far from here, and we were wondering if you had any information on her whereabouts or who she saw before she was murdered." Sherlock stated.

The girl's eyes widened.

"Sherlock!" John hissed. "A bit not good!" John turned to the girl, an apologetic smile on his face. "I'm sorry about my friend. He was being rude." The girl's eyes narrowed at him, as she shrank away from him a bit. "My name's John." John crouched down, in order to be at the girl's eye level.

The girl gasped in panic, stepping away from John, hiding herself behind the door. John's eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in confusion. "Sherlock?" he asked quietly.

"It seems that you remind her of someone, or something, that did her harm. It could simply be you, but, more realistically, it is a series of characteristics that both you and the person who did her harm possess. It might be physical characteristics, it might be social characteristics. She could possibly be afraid of everyone. It is completely understandable that she is afraid, after the ordeals she has been through."

"Seriously, Sherlock? It's understandable? I never thought I'd hear you say that! Isn't that part of the whole 'sentiment is unnecessary' thing you've got going on?" John said exasperated.

"Really, John! Fear is nothing to be ashamed of. It is wisdom in the face of danger, and I would expect you to have realized that a long time ago. Now," he continued, turning back to the small girl, "step aside John."

John looked at him quizzically before standing up and moving away, cocking an eyebrow when Sherlock took his place.

Sherlock slowly knelt before the girl, smiling softly at her. "Hello."

She furrowed her eyebrows, distrusting.

He continued. "My name's Sherlock. What's your name?"

Her small porcelain lips barely moved, the softest whisper emerging. "Hara."

Sherlock's lips quirked, his gaze soft upon the young girl. "Well, Hara, you're a smart girl, right?"

She nodded.

"And you live here with your relatives?" Another nod. "They don't like you do they?"

She shook her head.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "Did they hurt you recently, maybe yesterday, or the day before?"

Her eyes widened. Then, ever so slowly, she nodded her head.

"Did they hit you?"

"Just my Uncle Vernon."

Sherlock blinked. He hadn't expected the voice, like water in a brook, soft and clear, to emerge out of the girl. He had expected another whisper, not a clear, spoken answer, in a regular conversation volume.

"They expect you to do chores, correct? And they don't feed you often?"

"Yes."

"What chores do they have you do?"

"I cook and clean, I fetch the paper, I tend the gardens, I do the laundry, and I wash the dishes."

Sherlock thought for a moment, contemplating his next question. "Where do you sleep?"

"In my cupboard, under the stairs."

That was enough for Sherlock. Physical abuse, indentured servitude, and improper living arrangements? He would rather admit Anderson was right then see the poor girl spend one more minute in that house.

Sherlock stood up, whipped out his phone, and proceeded to text Mycroft, before turning to John.

"I won't stand to have this girl here any longer than she truly needs to be. I am going to take her to the yard, as much as a bunch of idiots they are, they can find out who she is, contact Social Services, and place her in a good home, where she will be loved and cared for properly. Now, I don't care how you feel about it," He said when John opened his mouth to argue, "I will not take no for an answer. Now, you are welcome to accompany me, but we will be leaving soon."

At that, he turned back to the girl. "My dear, I don't want you staying here if your uncle will continue to hurt you. I am going to take you to Scotland Yard, where they will help you find a nice family, who will love and care for you properly. You won't have to see your relatives ever again. Is that alright?"

The girl looked at him with large eyes, unsure if he was being serious. "I-I won't have to come back to the Dursleys? _Ever?"_

"Of course." Sherlock replied, a slight frown coloring his face.

A breathtaking grin split the girl's face, lighting up the space around her.

Sherlock grinned. "I'll take that as a yes."

He extended his hand to the little girl as a cab drew up to the curb.

And so, off they went, an army doctor in a jumper, jacket, and jeans; a consulting detective in a suit, scarf, and coat; and a small, lonely girl, dressed in an old blue t-shirt, a small pair of white bloomers, and a ribbon, hand in hand with a self-proclaimed sociopath, venturing towards a new life, filled with love, laughter, and possibilities.

And maybe even a little magic.

 **And so ends part one of our story.**

* * *

 **Yay!**

 **Thank you for supporting me, and commenting, and favoriting!**

 **I promise there will be more soon!**

 **mems1223**


End file.
